


Every Single Night

by solidburnreturned



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Mental Illness, OCD, Paranoia, Pre-Movie, poppy is only mentioned but shes there lol, slightly dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solidburnreturned/pseuds/solidburnreturned
Summary: A look at what evenings are like for Branch.





	Every Single Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is pre-movie and...pretty angsty lmao but mental illness can be like that. He's on a low swing mentally in this fic. I hope you enjoy! Sorry Branch ;w;

Murky grey clouds poured rain onto the forest below. Thunder clapped, shaking the earth, followed quickly by lightning. The storm was upon Troll Village and didn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon, drenching every inch of the area. Most trolls were tucked away safely in their warm, dry pods, hunkered down for the night, letting the rain form a sort of soothing lullaby. 

Most trolls, but not all.

One troll, as grey as the sky above, slogged his way through the muddy grass, shoving along a large apple. The fruit was as big as Branch was, and was proving to be more of a hassle in the rain than he had anticipated. He wasn’t prepared at all for the storm, and that bothered him. Being prepared was his whole life; it consumed almost every bit of his time. To not be ready for something was to take a huge risk. To be in danger. At least it was in his eyes. He wanted to get out of the rain ASAP. The loud thunder and the large drops beating against any and all surfaces was loud enough to drown out any noise that an approaching predator might make. No matter how much he strained, swiveled, and pricked his ears, he couldn’t hear anything other than the steady beat of the downpour. It was also much too dark to see anything beyond the surrounding foliage that could be lurking, eager to strike and claim a tasty meal of troll with fresh fruit. Paranoia put a hot spark under his feet and he picked up his pace. 

Soaked to the bone and shivering, Branch finally arrived at his unwelcome mat. He threw it open and kicked the apple in, jumping in after it and latching the hatch shut. A sigh of relief and exhaustion mingled with the hammering raindrops above the hatch. Storms like that were unusual this late into Fall. Unexpected. Anything unexpected was really inherently threatening, if you thought about it long enough. And Branch gave anything threatening plenty of thought. 

Wringing out his hair with one hand, he used the other to start his elevator down to one of his storage rooms. The biggest one was where he stored his apples. They were a sizable food source for him, and very versatile as well. Fine if eaten raw, but could be dried, made into pies, crisps, soups, stews, the seeds could be roasted, and even the occasional hard cider could be made from fermented apples when he needed to wind down after a particularly hard day. Just one apple could provide him with all of this. Definitely worth the trouble. 

Coming to a stop at the apple-filled mini cave, Branch quickly booted the fruit in with the others and continued down. He was cold, tired, and desperate for a change of clothes. The bunker was already chilly enough without icy, dripping fabric clinging to his shivering frame. Wonderful for the hot summer months and quite comfortable in the spring, but nothing short of damp and miserable the other half of the year. He’d have to clean his chimney out before the first frost if he wanted any chance of staying warm during the winter. 

Arriving outside his bedroom, he peeled off his vest and threw it onto a stray chair, not about to toss it into his hamper and make all of his other worn clothes damp and possibly moldy. His shorts soon followed and both were replaced with dry equivalents. Satisfied, he wandered back to his elevator once more. His internal clock (a.k.a. his growling stomach) was hinting that it was well passed time for him to make himself dinner. 

Thunder rumbled again from above, prompting Branch to glance upward. Fitting. The mood within the bunker was not unlike that of the one above; dreary, gloomy, and lonesome. Although, lonesome seemed to be around whether it was raining or not. Especially this time of day. He stretched his shoulders with a grunt, trying to distract himself from getting into a bad mood.

The lift settled at the bottom of the bunker with an echoing clunk. Branch plodded towards his meager kitchen, debating if he was up to actually cooking something or if he should just have some cold leftover acorn gruel. He had done so for the past few nights.  _Next time,_ he’d tell himself. Poppy had given him a handmade scrapbook-style cook book a few weeks earlier with recipes she loved and hoped that he would enjoy, too. She’d even included little cutouts of her and Branch cooking on each page, smiling, covered in flour or chocolate or whatever else they could make a mess with. Some dishes had actually seemed quite good: Pancakes with raspberry filling and blueberry sauce. Coffee cake with strawberry chunks and cinnamon. Smoked fish with roasted carrots and acorns. Recipes that had delicious results, but required a good amount of time and effort. Time and effort had seemed to be in short supply for him recently, resulting in his current cycle of leftovers. He didn’t want to start making it a routine, but he just hadn’t had the energy to prepare anything. Ironic, after days of nothing but preparation.

A low sigh was released through his nose. A calloused hand rubbed at his eyes. Exhaustion was hitting him hard and fast. He had already been running on little sleep when he had been caught in that storm and had exerted himself on top of that trying to rush back home. The last few days of constant foraging, manic energy, and anxious insomnia were now starting to drag him down mentally as well as physically. Rather rapidly, at that.

Yeah, it was another leftovers night. Next time. 

—

Sitting in the middle of his old couch felt better than pressing himself into one of the corners. He’d learned this some years ago. More room to spread out…stretch…scatter some books around for easy reading…feel like it wasn’t meant for a group of trolls to share, but rather one single troll to sit by himself on…

…stretch some more…

A bowl of watery, unheated, straight-from-the-fridge acorn porridge sat dejectedly on the small stump table in front of a pair of grey legs. Not much had been done to it. Branch was staring at it like he was attempting to make it to start floating, or maybe even disappear. Like it was the last thing he wanted to have in front of him in that moment. He scratched his chin before resting it in his hand, leaning forward to stare at the dirt wall instead. Had his stare been able to bore holes, it’d have dug more than halfway through that wall to troll-knows-where with the amount of time he’d spent glaring at it over the last several years, daydreaming like he was now. He imagined a happy pink troll being there instead of the cold earth. The clammy acorn sludge was instead a hot, homemade soup that she’d brought him.  _To put some love in your tummy!_ He picked up the spoon and scooped up a bit of the bowl’s contents. He looked back up at Poppy, who was grinning, eager for him to taste what she’d made just for him. 

“Cheers,” he muttered with a half smile, popping the spoon into his mouth. 

As soon as the bitter taste hit his tongue, his imagined Poppy was gone, replaced with dirt once more. The hot soup tasted as though it had been swapped out for dirt as well. Lovely. He swallowed quickly and tossed the spoon back on the table. The bowl was snatched off the table as we walked back to the kitchen towards the sink. Rather than torture himself by eating that slop spoonful by painful spoonful, he tipped the whole thing into his mouth in one go. Swallowing with a shudder, he tossed the bowl into the sink with the others and went to sit at his desk instead of that awful couch. The clatter of a tower of bowls tumbling over made him jump as it pierced the stillness he had been in previously. He should probably do some dishes soon. Tomorrow, for sure.

Another rumble of thunder mulled through the thick silence in the bunker. Branch picked up one of the many charcoal nubs lying on his stump desk and sat heavily on the rock chair. Practically nothing in this bunker was comfortable to rest on. Even his bed had grown rigid over the years, and that old couch was like a brick with a thin layer of moss. Unyielding, stone-like, cold to the touch. Hmm. 

One mindless drawing session later, the grey troll found himself staring at a rather unpleasant image. A scratchy, smudged version of himself in the craggy jaws of a bergen. Its eyes were bloodshot and wide with anticipation for the high it would soon get. Branch’s eyes were wide as well, with terror and desperation instead, as his hands seemed to reach off the paper to his creator in a last-ditch effort to get to safety. Branch scrunched up his face. That acorn gruel was at the back of his throat for a moment until he shoved the drawing away roughly. He didn’t want to think about that right now. Not that what he wanted mattered very much when it came to his thoughts. They came and went as they pleased, intruding almost constantly, bringing disturbing and upsetting images like that at the best of times. A twitch of the ears, and he was back to drawing, trying to depict something a bit nicer. A bit softer. 

He tried to make the charcoal glide over the page, ignoring his usual urge to make scratchy, sketchy, hard marks. Gentle curves, swooping lines. His nose was almost touching the paper, he was leaned in so close. His thumb carefully smudged here and there to add shading. Small dots for freckles. Curly marks for flowers. One quick swipe of black for a grin. 

He leaned back, dropping the charcoal next to his finished piece. Poppy’s smiling face beamed up at his sullen expression, almost willing him to tug up the corners of his own mouth. An all-too-familiar ache settled in his chest, turning his almost-smile into a definite frown. Thunder clapped. He tore the drawing into pieces. Best to get ready for bed. 

—

Scrubbing vigorously at his teeth, Branch avoided eye contact with his dull reflection as he stood at his old sink. When was he going to get rid of that stupid mirror, anyway? He made sure to get rid of any lasting traces of that gruel before finishing and heading off to his bedroom. He shrugged off his vest and carefully hung it back in his closet. An hour or two of wearing did not warrant it a wash. He wasn’t  _that_ grungy. 

He stared into the left corner of his closet for a moment. A small box sat in the shadows, a bit dusty from being left alone for a good while. A cobweb had even appeared on one of its wooden sides, one of which read “G.R.”. Still, he decided not to touch it. Not tonight. He closed the closet door with a click and walked over to his small nightstand, reaching up to tap the bioluminescent mushroom growing from above, encouraging it to give off a bit more light. A small journal and a bit of charcoal was gathered in his large hands from off the table. Lying back into his bed, stiff pillow propped up for extra support, he flipped to his latest entry and began writing below it:

_October 12_

_Averaged 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Cloudy. Windy. Thunder storm in the evening and into the night._

_Supplies gathered:_

_\- 32 pieces of firewood_

_\- 12 blueberries_

_\- 10 acorns_

_\- 5 jars of fresh water_

_\- 1 apple_

_Notes: Growl Beasts are becoming more aggressive as they prepare to hibernate. Should attempt to warn the village tomorrow. Thunderstorm despite storm season’s passing. River may start freezing soon. Should go fishing beforehand and stock up. No bergens spotted._

_Poppy encounters: 0_

His shoulders sank a bit as he closed the log book. He was tempted to leave the last bit of information blank, as the night was still fairly young, but common sense beat that hope back down. The princess would not be out in this rain just to come visit him and get yelled at to go away. She was overly cheerful and friendly, yes, but not stupid. He knew that much. 

The log was traded out for a larger, more personal journal. Once a blank page was located, he stared at it carefully, rubbing his temple and brow with two fingers as his thoughts swam. He drew up his knees closer to himself, almost to become smaller, more hidden from…no one, he supposed. He started to write:

_A storm rolls through_

_Grumbling, heaving, heavy_

_Longing to pour out what its been harboring_

_But too afraid_

_As others would drown._

_And what then?_

Branch paused and grunted before flipping to a clean page. He tapped the charcoal against the page for a moment, thoughts drifting back to the princess. He began again:

_Take me in your gentle hands_

_Our contrast as stark as warm sunbeams shining through murky skies_

_Mold me into something softer_

_More in your own image_

_Smooth my sharp edges_

_Touch me with tenderness that I haven’t-_

“Ahh,” he hissed, aggressively swiping to a new page. Stupid. 

_A dog that bites every hand that attempts to feed it deserves to starve._

_It bites to protect those who it has bitten_

_But-_

He scratched viciously at the paper, teeth bared, before slamming the journal shut. He held it with white-knuckle grasp, fighting the urge to throw it across the room. A couple deep breaths, and it was roughly placed back on the table. Not a night for that, it seemed.

Another roll of thunder. 

He slid down further to lie flat on his back, staring at the softly glowing mushrooms above him as he calmed back down. In his mind, they became twinkling stars in a clear summer sky. He turned to face his right. Imaginary Poppy was back, magenta eyes fixed up above to the stars above them. She turned to face him and gave him a small smile. That little gap in her front teeth could’ve melted him right then and there. She reached a hand over and traced the crows feet in the corner of his eye. He shut them, just for a moment, a bit longer than a blink, just a bit too long. The princess was gone as soon as he opened them again. The stars were back to being mushrooms on the ceiling of the muggy, chilled room. 

With a shiver and a sniff, Branch clenched his eyes shut and rolled onto his side. He needed sleep, he was starting to lose it. He yanked his patchy blanket up over his shoulder in one swift motion, trying to nestle down into the bed. It pushed back against him stubbornly. A heavy exhale. He hated how big this stupid bed was. Big, lumpy, cold, empty, lonely, made for two, occupied by one. Why did he have a second pillow. Why did he always sleep in the same spot, as if the left side of the bed was reserved, claimed by another troll. He couldn’t even bring himself to edge a bit closer to the middle. Ridiculous. 

He shut his eyes tightly, trying his best to clear his clamoring mind enough to get some actual rest.

—

The sharp sound of feet kicking against sheets ripped through the air as Branch jolted awake with a gasp. Sweat beaded on his brow and his skin felt clammy. He sat up with a cough and tried to catch his breath. Same dark room, same dirt and root walls, same uncomfortable, barren bed. Reality was hardly reassuring to him, but better than the alternative his brain had conjured in his sleep. Sweaty palms pressed into his eyes before being dragged down his face with a sigh-ish grumble. The small clock on his table told him is was barely passed midnight. His growling stomach affirmed this information. 

It was a bad habit, but he couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard he tried. It was either get a midnight snack or lie there with his own thoughts all night, too hungry to fall back asleep. Cruelly, sometimes the food wasn’t enough, and he’d be up all night anyway without rumbling demands from his gut to distract him. It would just be him and his thoughts. Those intrusive, unwelcome thoughts. And silence. But maybe tonight would be different.

He slid off his bed with a huff and made his way to the storage room across the hall. His legs were a bit more like jelly than he liked. He tapped a dimly lit mushroom and it immediately brightened up, illuminating the pile of blueberries that nearly reached the ceiling. Dipping into his emergency supplies made him anxious, but not anxious enough to stop him from plunking himself down next to the pile and helping himself to however many he wanted, blank faced. However many it took to fill this gnawing hole inside him, he supposed. He’d just mark how many he ate in the dirt, and then go out and collect enough to replace them tomorrow, and then some. His collection was already impressive. 734 berries tucked away for safekeeping. 

…733, now. 

He wished he could feel a bit proud about it, but really, it was just the product of a monotonous routine that he’d grown tired of. At one point he quite enjoyed it, felt accomplished, found comfort in the fact that he was so prepared. Now, if anything, foraging was a manic chore that had become an unpleasant compulsion, and the results were just a foreboding reminder that something was going to go horribly wrong one day. A bergen would arrive at the village and, like a coward, he would run away and hide. He would stay deep in his hole in the ground for another 10 years, truly by himself. No cheerful morning songs to wake up to, no booming late-night parties to keep him up. No one sneaking up on him to give him a spine-contorting bearhug. No more glitter-vomiting invitations being shoved in his face. No more visits from his princess, offering kind words, encouragement, inclusivity. No more adorable smiles, pink blushes, tucking of hair behind ears, mischievous winks. No more hurt expressions after harsh words. No more teary eyes or downcast looks. No more dejected walks back to the village. No more second, third, fourth, seemingly endless chances. That would end, and the village would be destroyed, and everyone would be gone for good. Except him, in his bunker, alone, for ten long years, until his supplies finally ran out. And even then he would remain down here, rather than face whatever horror was above ground, bergen or bergen-caused. 

Branch shakily wiped his eyes and shook his head. That was enough. Plenty. Time to go back to bed. 

He paused in the doorway for a moment. Down the shadowy hallway was another desk, smaller than the one in the main room of the bunker. Beside it were two small shelves, hidden behind ratty curtains, unlike the many other selves and cubbies on the surrounding walls. Unconsciously, he traveled to the desk and sat down, staring at the curtains. Carefully, almost fearfully, he drew them aside. The blast of color was visible even in the low light. His favorite invitation was selected and gently placed on the table. His eyes felt so heavy. Everything felt heavy. Crushing. If his hand were to even touch a single corner of this invitation, it would surely turn to dust. Destroyed by his rough hands. His ears drooped down, the silence heavy within them as well. He should go back to bed. Get some rest before going back out to forage tomorrow. Everything out there would be heavy, too. Sodden with the drenching rain. Unmovable, maybe. No matter how much it was pushed or pulled or encouraged or hugged, it would stay heavy and solid. Stubborn. Anchored by the product of a looming storm.

He blinked rapidly and drew in a deep breath. Reigning in his imagination was difficult when he was awake and alert, let alone half asleep and groggy. The invitation was nudged open. Two little figures popped out at him, stood atop a neon orange mushroom. Warm pink and dull grey arms were wrapped around each other, and big smiles stretched on little paper faces.  _Happy Valentine’s Day!_ was written in glittery, swooping letters across a rainbow of pinks, purples, reds and whites. Hearts on little springs danced lazily around the pair. Branch felt taunted by them. He frowned at the small grey figure. How dare it be there, honestly. An ugly smudge in such a beautifully colorful scene, embracing the happiest troll that could ever exist. What had he done to deserve that? Deserve such a loving gesture from someone so sweet and kind? With the awful things he’d done?

The invitation was slammed shut with both hands. He couldn’t take this torment his brain was putting him through. Couldn’t he just enjoy anything anymore? Not everything had to be upsetting, or miserable, or depressing. This downward spiral he could feel himself entering needed to stop. Somehow. At least that’s what he thought for the most part. There was always that small, nagging feeling to just let it happen, let his mind run wild, painting whatever horrors and torments it wanted. To just hit rock bottom and stay there, away from everyone and everything external that could hurt him. Internal, he’d have to deal with on his own. But really, he’d had practice, so maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Probably not. 

He recoiled with a sharp inhale. Sleep. Back to sleep. The card was hastily tucked away back in its place and hidden behind the curtains. 

His feet dragged as he entered his bedroom again. This really was his least favorite room in the bunker. The bed was cold when he climbed back in, drawing the covers up. He faced the empty space beside him, breathing shallow, mouth slightly ajar. He could feel his anxiety starting to build as he stared into the blackness before him. Shapes formed in the nothingness, but disappeared as soon as he attempted to focus on them. Ghosts? Burrowing predators? What was it. What were they. Anxiety turned to a fearful panic. It festered at the very base of his skull. It spread slowly to his temples, just behind his eyes, into the tense muscles of his neck, up and down his spine. Settled right in his gut and festered some more. Stabbed at his nerves, squeezed his lungs, churned his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his legs to his body, trying to squeeze out the throbbing ache. The silence was overwhelming. It was just unreal, paranormal…there  _must_ be something causing it. Something waiting in the silence to take him, rip him to absolute shreds in the space where he should feel safest. Just beyond the edge of the bed, it was waiting. He could feel it, sense it, hear it in the silence. It was so loud. He clamped his hands over his ears, worried he was already deaf. The  _thing_  would join him in the bed any second now, fill that empty void that he was saving. Years and years of saving. It would come creeping over over to him, engulf his entire body. Trace the wrinkles on his sweaty face, count the dark freckles on his cheeks and ears. A freezing cold touch. No tenderness, just ice. It would crawl into his ears through his fingers, seize him by the brain and destroy every bit of him from the inside out in one swift scream of pure nothingness. Fill him with silence as well. 

The icy touch slapped him across the face so suddenly, he couldn’t hold back the scream of shock and terror he’d been holding hostage in his throat. The blanket was ripped away and the mushroom was hammered on until the whole room was alight with an eery blue glow. Ragged breathing was strangled into sobs. The room was empty. He was alone. Another small drop of water fell down from the ceiling and onto the end of his nose. Above, he could see condensation had gathered on the mushrooms, waiting for gravity to pull the moisture down onto him. 

He screwed his eyes shut and reopened them, chest heaving. He was alone. It was just water. He was alone. It was all in his head. He. Was. Alone.

He buried his face in his knees, pulling at his mussed dark hair. Enduring these constant fights with his mind, clinging to slipping rationality, every single night…he didn’t know how to cope. He wished so badly that someone was there with him to hold him, pull him back to reality, tell him everything was alright. Ground him and give him reassurance. Tell him that he wasn’t alone, that he was strong, that she would be there for him always, that she cared for him. But he  _was_ alone, and she was in the village, surrounded by people she cared about instead down in this dank hole with him, the troll who had barked at her to go away every time she tried to get close. So instead he just sat, still as possible, and tried to get control of himself, tried to not let everything pour out of himself in a white-hot blaze of guilt and raw emotion. 

“Poppy,” he whispered into his knees, voice breaking, “…I’m sorry…”

—

The clamor of his alarm ripped Branch from sleep in an instant. He hadn’t even realized he’d managed to fall into a dreamless sleep at some point of the night. What a blessing. His body’s position was less than favorable; sat up, head in his arms, resting on his knees. Wincing, he stretched out, locked up limbs cracking and popping. He twisted his sore back with a groan until he earned a few pops from there as well. A lazy hand was slapped onto the alarm. Silence once again. It was early morning, before the other trolls would be up and singing.

He cleared his throat loudly and slid off the bed, trudging to his closet. A fresh leafy vest was pulled on with a firm roll of the shoulders. Clicking his teeth together in a rhythmless fashion, he went to check on the damage he’d done on his berry supply in the night. Seven jagged lines were drawn in the dirt. No wonder he wasn’t particularly hungry this morning. What a shame, he’d have to miss out on acorn porridge for breakfast. A real tragedy. 

He scoffed to himself and went to prepare his backpack. Slingshot, frying pan, rope, blanket, first aid, field notebook, charcoal, and a small jar of water. His usual arsenal for the day. It was all tucked away securely and slung over his shoulders with a huff. Maybe he’d forage closer to the village today. The terrain was more flat there, and probably wouldn’t be flooded. He did need to warn the other trolls about the increase in aggressive tendencies of the local Growl Beasts anyway. Poppy should really be the first to know, as the princess. It was just logical.

The elevator’s platform vibrated slightly under his feet as he ascended. His face was blank, staring straight forward, thick eyebrows slightly knitted together. Thoughts would normally be buzzing about in his brain, but he felt strangely clear and calm this morning. Like he’d had a reset. The fresh air felt wonderful against his skin as the bunker’s hatch was thrown open. The forest still had the smell of recent rains. The chill in the air was crisp. His breath was visible in front of him. Early morning in the forest was one of his favorite times. It wasn’t silent, but there weren’t any noisy celebrations happening either to attract hungry bergens. Just gentle wind blowing through bare tree limbs, the crunch of dried leaves under his feet, distant song of birds, and his own breath leaving his body. 

Time to get going. Night would be approaching again before he knew it. 


End file.
